Forgotten Ground Regained
Fugue For Toy Piano
To be old then, is this:Now is no more the edgy blade;The blood moves more deeply in the runs of fleshDown, down where the bone lurks and does not bend.(Softly sweet with incomplete furtheringsAnd fanfares -- wrongly right.)The happy horoscope of hellComes full at night in the smothering darkAnd light breaks in saving, safe, salvation.Here I am here.Here I abide.Here I linger along the long lonelyClavicle and scapula(Humerus, radius, ulna)In their antique speculation,Splendid in their august equilibrium.All the tomorrowsHave become yesterdays andWhat remains is a generousSublimation of eternity.No more the rush.No more the pull.Still and silent in the unmoving air;Cold, where there is no push of days;Deeply honied by the savage remnantsOf happiness, never lost.
Copyright © James Murphy, 2001. This poem was also published in 2001 in The Buffalo News.
No part of this site may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems